She Didn't Know Any Better
by Artemidora
Summary: Bellatrix recounts the history of her relationship with Narcissa. Warnings: chanslash, incest, questionable consent/implied abuse. BB/NB one-shot.


Really, she was very young. She didn't know any better.

I knew better. I was old enough. Besides that, I was always the one to come to her room, at least at first. I started it.

But I didn't finish it.

I was ten the first night. In my body, the first stirrings of adult desires were beginning to awaken. I wasn't aware of the source, so I handled my new feelings with anger and irritability. The plain middle sister, Andromeda, was a sensible eight-year-old and decided she didn't have to spend time with me anymore; the new additions to my personality, I suppose, did not endear me to her. But I could live with that. I was not used to being endearing, anyway.

I was a thorny child, both in affect and behavior. I was constantly dishevelled from roughhousing with the boys – my cousins, Sirius and Regulus, as well as other respectable youngsters like that horrid Malfoy brat. He was something of a weakling – I always beat him at wrestling. I was proud of this, but my mother and father acted like I should be ashamed of myself for daring to fight the boys and, more importantly, for daring to win.

My hair was long and thick, but I neglected care of it – it was always windblown and heavy. Mother never allowed me to cut it; I suppose she insisted on keeping the one hope for her eldest daughter's femininity intact. Not that it did me any good. When it got in my way, I tied it back.

I took little care of my clothes, bathed only when I was reminded to do so, and could think of no higher purpose for my fingernails than scratching my opponents. And I was far too clever. I earned better marks than either of my sisters, but nothing I did could make me the favorite daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black. That was gentle Narcissa.

While Andromeda was quiet and bookish if mindful of her parents, Narcissa was not only obedient to a fault but also an utter gem for entertaining guests. She was sweet, and just clever enough to be the delight of both her parents. They showered her with kisses and praise, dressing her up in hideous things with frills and bows; she looked like a porcelain doll, complete with flaxen curls and endless patience, for most of her childhood. When she asked for things, she never begged or cried like me or Andromeda. She always made mother believe it had been her idea, and she always got whatever she had wanted. The older but lesser sisters watched in awe as the prettiest among us, our delicate flower, inherited a world that catered to her whims without her ever raising her voice.

Andromeda shrugged it off and looked for other outlets – books, friends, eventually Mudbloods. But I seethed. I was sick with jealousy. I never directed my anger at my precious younger sister, for even I felt nothing but tenderness toward her. But I fumed at my parents, the world, and myself. I thought I was being punished for my imperfections, clearly none of which little Cissy possessed. I strove for self-improvement, but I also strove to strip the golden maiden of her privileges. I didn't want to hurt her; only to bring her to my level and take the world's extravagance for myself. I decided that my best path was through Narcissa herself.

I crept into her bedroom one night, long after everyone else had gone to sleep. "Cissy?" I whispered close to her skin. Upon receiving no answer, I took the liberty of blowing on the back of her neck and fluttering a trail of kisses along her jawbone.

Finally, her eyes cracked lazily. "Is it morning?" the six-year-old asked. I shook my head and brushed the hair out of her face, finally allowing myself to climb into bed next to her. I slid my arm around her waist and pulled her close to me.

"I missed you." A simple statement. It was true enough. She did smell nice; she took a bath with flowery soap and milk every night. She reminded me of a daisy.

I began to pull the petals off.

Slipping down from her waist to the knee, my hand sought the warmth of her skin beneath the soft cotton night-dress. Cissy's breath quickened, but only slightly. I hiked up my own gown and slid my right leg between hers, relishing the contact between our unclad legs and cotton-covered chests.

For the first time, I kissed her on the lips. I had planned this particular action very carefully: as I matured, I had taken it upon myself to learn about different types of kissing. I didn't want to put my tongue in her mouth, lest she drool on me in her innocent drowsiness. I brushed my lips against her own, then came back to extend the kiss. It was soft but demanding as I held her in place beneath me, one hand still on her undefined waist and the other pressing upon her wrist.

As Narcissa grew, I began to demand more of her. My visits were irregular and infrequent, but I took great pleasure in touching and confusing her. I think she believed, for a while, that I was there to serve her. But when she eased into puberty and gradually began wanting things out of the encounters, things that upset my carefully-constructed lesson plan for the night, she learned that she did not get what she wanted simply by wanting it. At least, not with me. She wanted her urges satisfied on her time, but she was no longer a child, and that frightened her. I was the first and last person to whom she raised her voice, pleading in agitated whispers and crying when she was denied.

I loved her, but she stopped believing it. I understand. I was always jealous of her, a fact she began to realize during our visits. But I had something she wanted. It was always a challenge for her to earn the privilege of satisfaction, but I obliged when she did. She began to crawl into bed with me, visiting my room, haunted by the desires that mercilessly gripped her insatiable body. Just when she finally began to need me, just when she was reduced to unsightly begging, I pushed her away. She suddenly ceased to be the lofty maiden I loved, and I could not articulate, either to her or to myself, what I wanted at this point. I barricaded myself.

So she went off without a backward glance and married Lucius Malfoy, that horrid worm of a child, now a full-grown snake. She married him for the glass castle and the sound of money in his voice, things I could never have provided. She had to get what she wanted, like she used to. It was a hard-earned and desperate comfort, after what she'd been through, regressing into her selfish childhood. It wasn't her fault she broke my heart.

She didn't know any better.


End file.
